in which i’m beginning to calculate every step i take.

by ty

It might come off as allowing negativity to outplay the notion of placid kindness and being remotely positive, but whilst allowing the intrusion of aching legs and quivering gazes upon the physical containments of the qualities which pushed me off my equilibrium, it occurred to me that perhaps it was always best to leave others to be subjected to their own range of customized sanctions if that was what they duly deserved, if it was what they deemed fit.

We’ve been told over and over, by adults and their hushed voices with hints of worry in their tones as their frowns latched themselves upon the blurry images we would recall over the years that things get better, and perhaps being a student might be tough because of its restrictions and short time frames given for the submission of hefty in depth reports. Yet its clear, pristine – through the translucent veils of rounded protection we run our calloused fingers over the curtains to push these chiffon nothings aside, realizing that things only pick up – they never slow down, and never fade.

Because when we’re up against the surface, when we’re pitching our tents on the peak of the mountain, the air gets thinner, and slowing down is a symbol of cowardice and inability. Hence this is were the mad scramble begins, the process of learning to mould to expectations regardless of how irresponsible or baseless these limitations may be – and to understand and adapt to the fact that we can only imitate our favourite constellations because we can never, achieve a similar standard without the freedom of time, the privilege of passion, and the gift of courage.

But it shouldn’t be forgotten over time that just because its becoming something natural and that we learn to mould ourselves to everything that’s given to us on a stained plate doesn’t imply that we’re obligated to allow ourselves to spill over, neither does it mean that it’s a just reason for gathering the strength to change things. It’s a vicious cycle, a game of tolerance – in which as cliché as it sounds, it’s the fittest that survive. The fittest on the surface, because with minimal scars against the hues of his tanned skin he might’ve been crumbled and hollow on the inside.

Just because one pays attention to those with their toes dipped in or barely in contact with the water doesn’t imply that their skin isn’t crinkling from being damp against chilled insanity melted into sweet nothings.

Just because one’s equally capable of leading himself back to the shore after drowning doesn’t imply that he’s infallible.

And just because he chose to hold his breath whilst underwater doesn’t truly imply that he wouldn’t choose to let go of himself, eventually.

And sometimes he can’t remember where he ends, and where he starts – because ambitiously reaching forth to fit the pieces together for another puzzle when yours is clearly undone and in a hopeless mess isn’t always appreciated.